It Hurts Me To Hear You Cry
by LavernaG
Summary: Based on "Anne with an 'E'", this is a story of two instances when Marilla has given in to her emotions and needs her brother's comfort. But Matthew has never been brave... Two-Shot.
1. Chapter 1

**_I'm watching the new season of "Anne with an 'E'" and it's simply brilliant! I can't remember the last time I was this excited about something so beautiful. There's so much love and beauty in every episode, in every scene. And there are so many things I wanted to see on-screen, and they made them happen. I'm super-excited to see the whole season through! And what's so wonderful is that although there are new characters and adventures, the show has stayed true to its first season and the perfect atmosphere of Green Gables._ **

**_So, as I was watching episode seven of the second season, I had this idea of a small fanfic. I couldn't get it out of my head, so I couldn't even finish watching the episode before I'd written it all down. Just to be safe, there are no big spoilers here for the second season! At least I think there aren't. ;) If you've read the books and seen the first season, you should be safe._**

 ** _This story is from Matthew's point of view. The first chapter takes place when he's but a child. The second chapter happens during episode seven of the second season._**

 ** _I hope you enjoy this story, and please, please leave me a review if you do. And also if you're as excited about the new season as I am! :)_**

* * *

I open my eyes to meet the familiar darkness of my bedroom. I've always felt safe here—away from the scaring world and all the loud people. I like the silence. It's comfortable. I'm the happiest when I'm silent. And when she's silent with me. There will be an awful lot more silence here now.

The night is warm. I was having a pleasant dream just a moment ago—much more pleasant than the real life at this moment in time. It's very hard right now—for everyone. It feels like all the happiness has been drawn from the world. I used to love the nature, the creek, the young cherry tree next to the house. Now they all seem dull and sad, as if they could all feel the grief in this house. I wonder if they'll ever be happy again.

The silence is not comforting tonight. It feels as if it's restless, as if it's waiting for something to shatter it, so that it wouldn't have to roam this sorrowful house any more. I wait as a few moments pass, and then, it seems, the silence's prayers are answered. The silence is broken by a small sound in the next room.

At first it's a quiet, restrained sound of agitation. I know it's her and she's crying, but there's nothing I can do to help her. Even if I was brave enough to go into her room, I wouldn't know what to say or do. I've never had this problem with her, but now, it seems, everything is different. I doubt it will ever be the same again.

The shuddering sounds of pain grow louder, and suddenly I wish it had been me who'd died—then I wouldn't have to hear her cry. It hurts me so much to hear her cry. My sister—the strong, independent Marilla, who's never afraid of anything—is crying her heart out in her room, and I have no idea whatsoever how to help her. How does one help someone who's lost someone so dear to her?

I can't bear to think of my own grief. Not now, not any time soon. There's work to be done on the farm. And life must go on, no matter what happens. I must be strong for all of us.

The crying is getting louder and I can hear her calling out his name in the midst of it. "Michael!" I roll over to my side and cover my ears with my hands. It hurts like fire to hear her. "Michael!" The house is a complete hear-through. I can hear her panting breathlessly from crying out. I can picture her sprawled over her bed, her pretty hair a mess, and her face tear-stricken and desperate.

As the glowering silence resumes, I try unsuccessfully to get the image out of my head. I want to cry but I don't seem to be able to conjure up any tears. I keep wondering why that is. I know I'm not a heartless person, because if I were, it wouldn't be hurting like it is now.

I can hear her slowly getting up from her bed, and that must have been the sound of her picking up her lamp. She always leaves the lamp on when she goes to sleep. Then there's silence again—brooding, lengthening silence, and I feel a tense alertness seizing my body. I know I cannot hear a sound, but like a ghost of a whisper, the cries are still echoing in my head.

I lower my hands back under the covers. Still there is no sound from the next room or from the hallway. I've never been afraid of the dark, but now, in my terrible, anxious anticipation to hear another sound from my sister, the dark, haunted reaches of the night seem to grow deeper and more menacing around me. It's unbearable.

I wish I was brave. Then I would get up and find Marilla, and cry with her. I know it would make me feel so much better than I do now. We understand each other, me and her. We always have. Someone once used this phrase somewhere and it's never left my mind. We're "kindred spirits", me and Marilla. I know we are. I can feel it.

Suddenly there is a quiet sound behind me and I realize it's the sound of my door opening. A curious feeling of apprehension fills me. She has brought her lamp. But I'm facing away from her, so she can't possibly see I'm awake, not if I close my eyes as well. I can't look into her eyes right now. How could I explain to her that I heard her cry and that I didn't do anything about it? I'm so scared that seeing the look of desperate helplessness that I know is plastered to her face at the moment will hurt me even further.

Thankfully, she doesn't seem to realize I'm awake. Sometimes I think she appreciates silence almost as much as I do. The mattress moves slightly, and with a fluttering, panicky feeling I realize she has sat next to me.

I love her—probably more than I ever loved Michael or mother, and definitely more than I love my father. But my love, as deep and true as I know it to be, has limitations, namely my lack of bravery. I can't turn around and embrace her, nor can I even reach out my hand to clasp hers. I simply can't. And even more than I did when I heard her cry, I want to weep because she has come as close as she can to pull me out of my defensive isolation, but I am simply too scared to turn around and face her and both of our grief.

"Matthew," she whispers, and I can hear the note of desperation in her tone. I can almost feel her hand reaching out towards my shoulder and stopping inches away in desperate uncertainty. She pulls back, and finally a single tear escapes my eye. Eventually Marilla lets out a sad, echoing sigh. "It's just you and me now, Matthew. And I don't want to ever lose you. You're all I have."


	2. Chapter 2

_**I wanted to see the episode to the end before publishing this chapter, just to be sure I didn't make any huge mistakes. Thankfully, this is just a little alteration from the real thing. Episode seven from season two is now officially my favourite episode of "Anne with an 'E'"! :)**_

* * *

Anne left for Charlottetown just this morning and is due to be back tomorrow, but I can't help but miss her already. That might be the reason I can't sleep. I'd like to think it is. Anne's been away before and she's always been fine. There is something else, however, something much more troubling. As I climb the stairs silently, I realize this might be why I'm feeling so restless.

It's not usual for Marilla to be like this. She said it was nothing—the headache—, but I know better. I know her so much better than she gives me credit for. Today was an ordeal for her, I could see that. And she's never called me "Michael" before. I don't tend to overreact easily, but I am worried—deeply worried. But I hadn't counted on my worries to be so accurate.

As soon as I reach the upstairs hallway, I can hear her. Dry sobs of despair coming from her room make their way into my heart and cut like knives. I know I should be braver. All my life I should have been braver, so that Marilla didn't think she needed to hide away her feelings from me. I love her so dearly. I want to be there for her when she's upset.

I've comforted Jerry and Anne. I wonder why is it that I can't conjure up the courage to go to Marilla—the sister I've lived with my whole life—and comfort her in her despair. It shouldn't be that difficult. I don't even have to say anything. We've lived in comfortable silence for the most of our lives.

I'm suddenly reminded of a night years and years ago. We'd just lost both Michael and mother. And I was too cowardly to comfort Marilla when she needed me so desperately. I've sometimes revisited the night in my mind, and every time I've come to the conclusion that I should have done something—anything—to help make her feel better.

And without even making the decision clear in my head, I head towards her room. I'm trying to be quiet but I'm positive she's heard me for the sobs have stopped. I imagine she could be holding her breath. I would be if I were her. It's not often that I visit the first floor, and I imagine she wouldn't want me to find her in her current state, knowing I'd have come to ask her about something important that she couldn't set her mind to at the moment.

I knock on her door just in case she really doesn't want to see anyone. Silence is the only answer I get, so I take it as a sign that it is safe to enter. I make my way through the doorway, heading towards the bed before my courage runs out.

She's lying in bed, as I'd thought. The lamp is still burning on her night-stand, as always. She has her back to me, just like I had my back to her that night. And I know she's awake and anxiously waiting for my next move. I think I know exactly the way she's feeling right now. And more than ever I want to help her out of her lonely desolation.

I didn't think I had it in me to, all of a sudden, be so brave. Anne has taught me a lot of things, but I never thought courage was one of them. I am proven wrong as I, almost unconsciously, sit down on the edge of the bed. I can see Marilla's body stiffening—something that could be mistaken for a tremor of fright. But she could never be afraid of me.

I have no words to fill the expectant silence between us. And I don't really feel that words would be the right choice to use in this situation. I am, once again, reminded of the night when our places were reversed. I reach out my hand towards her, and I get caught in the same hesitation as she had done.

All of a sudden I don't feel so brave any more. This is the last moment when I can just turn around and leave, and I am tempted. Marilla has always recovered from anything that has bothered her. Why should this be any different? I pull my hand back and feel something clutch tightly at my heart. But will she recover this time? And will I?

The fabric of her nightgown feels soft and warm under my fingers. I realize now that she's trembling. A moment passes without any change in her, and a thought briefly enters my mind that maybe I should have left her alone after all. But I don't remove my hand from her shoulder. I've come this far, and this time I am determined to be there for my sister.

Finally, Marilla turns her head and looks up at me. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. Her face is tear-stricken and her expression utterly desperate, fair enough. But the look in her eyes is like nothing I've ever seen before. She looks lost, feverish even with fear, and although her eyes are wide open, I find myself doubting if she can see me.

Like those of a blind person, her hands seek out me, and this is the fastest I've ever responded to an embrace. I pull her up and close to myself, realizing only now how petite and fragile a grown woman can be. To the outside world Marilla definitely seems like a rigid and strong woman, but there are times like this when I am reminded that that's not all there is to her.

"Oh, Matthew," a sob of anguish escapes her as she clings to me like a drowning man clings to a piece of floating wood. "I'm so scared. I'm scared, Matthew. I can't see you. I can't see!"

I don't think my mind can register the shock of these news fast enough. I can hear her all right, but it just doesn't seem real. She's had these spells before—these headaches and also some trouble with her sight. But it has never before scared her so much. And I have no idea how to comfort the shaking woman in my arms. All I know is that I will do my best. I am not going to shy away this time.

"Well now," I say to her quietly, gently patting her back. "No matter what comes, you've got me and Anne. And we're always going to be here for you."

 _The End_


End file.
